


A Patchwork Family: Huan

by Lbilover



Series: A Patchwork Family Series [1]
Category: The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Ending, Dogs, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-08
Updated: 2016-12-08
Packaged: 2018-09-07 05:47:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,955
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8785501
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lbilover/pseuds/Lbilover
Summary: Frodo rescues an abused, abandoned whippet, little knowing how this act of kindness will change his life.





	

**Author's Note:**

>  
> 
>  
> 
> The first of an ongoing series of stories set after the Quest that feature Frodo, Sam and a small whippet dog named Huan. This story was originally written in 2006. Many thanks to my beta Marigold and to Aina Baggins for the lovely illustration at the end of the story. Thanks to Soni for the above manip of Frodo, Sam and Huan.

_March, S.R. 1420_

“Good afternoon, Mr. Frodo.”

“Afternoon, Mayor.”

“How are you today, Mr. Baggins?”

Frodo Baggins smiled and nodded, exchanging greetings with passersby as he walked through the crowded marketplace in Bywater. He did not linger, for he was on his way home to Bag End after an early lunch at the _Green Dragon_ , and a morning spent tending to his duties as the Deputy Mayor of the Shire.

Although his business had been neither lengthy nor difficult, he felt weary now and anxious to be back at his beloved smial, newly restored after its despoilment by Sharkey and his Men. Frodo had been ill earlier in the month, and did not yet feel quite himself again; he tired easily and his shoulder ached dully. A return to Bag End would mean hot tea, peace and quiet- and Sam, returned at last from his labours in the north. Frodo began to walk faster.

As he left the market square and turned into a narrow lane lined with shops, Frodo couldn’t quite shake an uneasiness that had been growing on him ever since he left the _Green Dragon_. Abruptly he stopped and turned swiftly to look behind him. Nothing. He resumed walking, but was unable to throw off the creeping sensation that was raising the hair on the back of his neck. It was a sensation he remembered well from the days of the Quest: the sensation of being followed.

Nonsense, he scolded himself. Who would be following him, and why? He had no enemies here in the Shire. The memory of the long dark of Moria and the faint _slap, slap_ of Gollum’s footsteps echoing in the blackness came back to him, casting a pall over the sunny spring afternoon. But Gollum was dead, fallen into the Cracks of Doom with his Precious; the Ring was destroyed. Still, Frodo’s hand crept to his chest and the white gemstone that hung there; he clasped it tightly, drawing strength and comfort from it as he always did.

Yet the sensation of watchful eyes upon him persisted.

Again he whirled around, hoping to catch his pursuer off-guard. Had that been a shadowy movement, there by the entrance to the baker’s shop? Convinced now that he was not being fanciful, Frodo decided it was time to put an end to the game of cat-and-mouse that his unknown shadow was playing. He darted into an alleyway between two shops, waited for a minute or so, and peered cautiously around the corner.

He’d caught his pursuer.

But it was no Gollum who greeted his eyes; no Ruffian of the Big Folk; no ne’er-do-well hobbit. It was a dog. A small, skinny creature with bright dark eyes, regarding Frodo with what could only be called a hopeful expression. His head was cocked to one side and his ears were raised; one front foot was held poised above the ground as if he awaited an invitation to come closer. Frodo stepped out of the alleyway, chuckling ruefully at his over-active imagination.

“Here now, get away from my shop, you dirty thing. Scare away my custom, you will.” Wil Proudfoot, the baker, came flying out of his shop, flapping his apron at the little dog and aiming a swift kick at its side.

The dog, apparently accustomed to such treatment, scooted nimbly out of reach and ran quickly to hide behind Frodo who, roused to unaccustomed anger, confronted the baker with a look that caused that worthy to step back a pace. But Frodo, though breathing hard, addressed him in a calm, even voice: “There’s no call for such behaviour, Wil. It’s only a dog.”

The baker’s already florid countenance flushed redder. “Well, I’m sorry, Mr. Frodo, but that there dog is a nuisance; allus hanging about lately he is, climbing in the dustbins and stealing food. He’s naught but a stray and no use to anyone.” Wil added defiantly, “Everyone in Bywater will tell you the same, sir. I’m not the only one as has chased him away.”

Frodo looked down at the dog. His coat was so filthy that the colour was hard to guess; his ribs could easily be counted and his hipbones were prominent. But he gazed back at Frodo with undaunted spirit in his eyes, and the tip of his whip-thin tail was gently wagging.

“If he’s stealing food, it’s because he’s starving,” Frodo replied quietly. “I know a bit about how it feels to go hungry, Wil, and I won’t have it here in the Shire, not even for a stray dog.” He fixed the baker with a stern look. “Have we not had enough of cruelty and neglect? I’d hoped that sort of behaviour had disappeared with Sharkey’s Men.”

To his credit, Wil looked abashed by Frodo’s words; he dropped his eyes and shuffled his hairy feet, his hands twisting in his apron. “You’re right, Mr. Frodo, and I beg your pardon, I’m sure.” He eyed the dog without affection, but said, “As for the dog, I suppose I could spare him a bite to eat from what we didn’t sell this morning.”

“That won’t be necessary, Wil, although I do appreciate the offer. I’ll be taking the dog home with me.” Frodo hadn’t known he was going to say the words until they were out of his mouth. But he knew at once that they were the right words, and that he meant them.

Frodo nodded his head at the baker, who was staring at him as if he’d gone mad, said a brisk, “Good day to you, Wil,” and strode off up the lane, the little dog trotting obediently at his heels as if his place had always been there.

 _Mad Baggins_ , Frodo thought to himself, mentally shaking his head. _I wonder what Sam will say?_

***

“He’s naught but skin and bones!” Sam Gamgee exclaimed in distress, dropping to his knees beside the dog. “Like my Bill was, when we got him from that awful Bill Ferny. Oh, I’d like to have a word or two with Wil Proudfoot, I would.” Sam’s eyes were hot with anger, his hands clenched into fists at his sides.

Frodo had arrived home a short time earlier with the dog still following behind him: as silent and as close as Frodo’s own shadow. They had encountered few hobbits on the Road and he was glad of it. Such travellers as there were had given him odd looks when they had seen the forlorn little creature accompanying him. He couldn’t blame them. By morning, he was certain, word of Frodo Baggins’s latest eccentricity would be all over the Shire.

The sense of relief he experienced when Bag End’s round front door came into view was enormous. He went at once to find Sam, whom he discovered standing at the kitchen table pouring steaming water into a large teapot. Sam’s astonishment at seeing Frodo enter the room with a dog was almost comical. His round brown eyes went rounder and his mouth fell open. But astonishment soon turned to distress, and then anger, as Frodo recounted how he had found the dog, and why he had brought him home.

The little dog seemed to understand instinctively that Sam’s anger was not directed at him. He looked trustingly at the hobbit as Sam placed a gentle hand on his head and petted him. “You did right to bring him here, Frodo,” Sam said with approval. “He’s in a bad way, poor lad.”

”Do you think there’s anything seriously wrong with him?” Frodo asked, unable to hide the anxiety he felt. “I’m afraid I don’t know anything about dogs, Sam. Farmer Maggot’s dogs terrorized me so completely when I was a lad that I avoided _all_ dogs after that. I don’t even have the faintest clue what type of dog this one is. He certainly looks nothing like those brutes that Maggot keeps.”

Sam had been running his hands along the dog’s back and sides, then down each leg to the paw, feeling carefully for signs of injury. He gave Frodo a reassuring smile when he was done. “Don’t you fret, my dear. There’s naught wrong with him that a few good meals won’t set right.” He grimaced as he looked at his hands. “And a bath.” The dog licked at Sam’s wrist as if to apologise for his filthy state. “As for what type of dog he is, well now, he’s a whippet.”

“A what?” Frodo had never heard the word before.

“A whippet. Mr. Cotton had one, years ago when I was a young lad. He was a fine dog, old Snap was: a better mouser than any cat, and a dab hand at catching coneys. A good whippet can keep his family’s cooking pot well-filled with rabbits.”

“This poor fellow doesn’t appear to have been catching much of anything from the look of him, save angry words and blows.”

Sam’s mouth tightened. “Aye, he’s been down on his luck, and shame on those as couldn’t even spare him a crust of bread.” His voice softened as he added, “But he knew right enough where he could turn for help.” He gave Frodo a look that made the other hobbit’s ears turn pink. “Well now,” he went on briskly, “a bath for this little fellow first and then a meal, I think.”

They took him outside in the garden, in the warm afternoon sun, and bathed him several times. As the grime washed away, the dog’s true colour emerged: a deep blue-grey, with white on his chest and the tips of his toes and a thin white snip on his nose. He seemed as anxious to be clean as Sam and Frodo were to have him so, and stood patiently while the two hobbits worked on him, lathering and scrubbing and rinsing repeatedly.

“Whippets are like cats that way: they don’t like to be dirty,” observed Sam, who, as always, amazed Frodo with the unexpected depths of his knowledge.

“He’s beautiful,” commented Frodo, admiring the dog’s sleek lines and graceful curves, his delicate pointed muzzle and small rosed ears, while Sam rubbed him down with a towel. “Like a small Shadowfax.”

“He’ll be beautifuller still when he’s gained some weight and his coat gets a bit of a shine to it.” Sam handed Frodo the towel. “Here, Frodo, you keep on with drying him while I go fetch him something to eat.”

Frodo rubbed tentatively at the whippet’s damp coat, fearful of being too rough and hurting the painfully thin little creature. But the dog didn’t seem to mind: on the contrary, he leaned into Frodo’s touch as if he enjoyed it. 

Frodo’s heart ached as he worked, for he discovered in the deep blue-grey coat numerous white scars, both small and large: a few looked to be recently healed. One of the dog’s delicate ears, as soft and fine to the touch as a mouse’s coat, had a ragged edge as though it had been torn, or perhaps bitten. Had he suffered these wounds at the hands of Men? Frodo wondered. Or had it perhaps been some wild creature? He could not countenance the thought that a hobbit had been responsible, but the image of Wil Proudfoot, kicking out in anger, flashed into his mind. Saruman was dead and the Ruffians dead or departed from the Shire, but the effects of his evil and malice could still be felt, though less and less as time passed and fear and mistrust faded.

“Whatever, whoever made these, you’re safe now,” he vowed. “Sam and I will look after you.”

***

Sam was back in a few minutes, carrying a bowl filled with milk-soaked bread and bits of meat. He set it down in front of the whippet. Tail wagging with enthusiasm, the dog wolfed down his meal. Frodo, sitting on the ground beside him, laughed, his anxiety clearly eased by this evidence of a healthy appetite. “He eats like Pippin.”

Sam chuckled. “He does at that.” How good it was to hear the sound of Frodo’s laughter, he thought. It was a rare enough sound these days.

“Will he-” Frodo began hesitantly, “Will he have a family looking for him, Sam?” There was a wistful note in his voice.

Sam felt Frodo’s quiet words like a blow to his heart. He himself was away so often, with all the planting and other work still left to repair the damage done to their beloved Shire. He passed as many hours as he could at Bag End, but oftentimes was too far afield to return home, and therefore obliged to pass the night at a farm or inn. When he _was_ home, he felt pulled in all directions: his father, the Cottons, Frodo. He tried his best to accommodate them all, but often felt that, on the contrary, he was failing them instead. Most especially Frodo: he had no family; no father; no close neighbors, to keep him company. What did Frodo do, alone of an evening without his Sam or anyone else to talk to? Merry and Pippin came when they could, but it was a long way from Crickhollow where they now lived, and they had their duties to their own families and lands.

He felt like the ninnyhammer his father had always called him for not understanding sooner how lonely Frodo must be. He’d been too busy, that was the trouble, and Frodo, he knew, would never complain or seek to turn Sam from his duty. But where did his duty lie, if not with the master he had served and loved since he was a child, who had given so much, suffered so much to save them all?

The dog, having licked the bowl clean, had gone to Frodo and was resting his head on the hobbit’s velvet-covered knee. Frodo gently stroked the clean soft fur and Sam saw that he was using his maimed hand. He swallowed a lump in his throat at the sight of Frodo’s hand and the stump of the finger Gollum had bitten off. Frodo often tried to hide it from view, as if it were something shameful instead of the most honourable of wounds. Sam understood then that Frodo felt a kinship with the little dog, so thin and worn after his own sufferings. And it came to Sam, in a flash of clarity, that the dog had been meant to find Frodo, and Frodo to find him.

“No, my dear,” Sam answered Frodo’s question at last, and his voice was filled with deep certainty, “I’d say he’s not had a family of his own for a long time, if he ever has.”

“Then we can keep him, Sam?” Frodo could not disguise the hopeful tone of his question.

“I reckon he wouldn’t go if we tried to send him away. I’d say he’s found his home, and his master.” Just like I did, all them years ago, Sam thought.

Frodo’s smile was a beautiful thing to see; like his laughter, it was too rarely on display these days. “It will be like having a new member of the family,” he said happily.

“In that case, my dear, we need to come up with a proper name for him.”

Frodo’s smile widened; he gave Sam a triumphant look. “Ah, but that’s easy, Sam. There’s only one name he _could_ have.”

“There is?” asked Sam, surprised by the surety of Frodo’s answer. “What is it?”

“Why, Huan, of course: the great hound of Valinor who helped Beren and Lúthien gain the Silmaril. We heard the tale told in Rivendell; do you remember?”

“Aye, I do remember, now you mention it. Huan.” Sam tested the name out, liking the sound of it, and the whippet looked up at him.

“There! You see, Sam? He knows his name already.”

***

Sam entered the kitchen with a large wicker basket in his arms. “There now,” he said with a pleased smile. “I knew I’d find something as would suit back in the store rooms. We’ll line it with an old quilt or two, and it will make a right fine bed for Huan.”

Frodo took the basket from Sam and set it down on the hearthrug. “This will be your bed,” he informed Huan, as seriously as if the dog could understand his words. Huan watched him with interest, following Frodo’s every move with alert dark eyes. 

Grinning, Sam went away to the linen press, and returned a few minutes later with several thick soft blankets that he arranged with care in the basket. The two hobbits stood back and watched as the little dog stepped agilely into his new bed. He scratched at the bedding, arranging it more to his liking, then lay down, stretching out and wriggling about until he was comfortable. He heaved a deep sigh of contentment and closed his eyes. Frodo and Sam exchanged pleased smiles.

“I’ll have to make a collar for him,” said Sam, rubbing the back of his neck in a thoughtful manner as he considered the idea. “I’ve some bits of soft bridle leather I can use. It’ll need to be something soft, or it’ll rub his fur away.”

“You’re a marvel, Sam,” Frodo said with an admiring shake of his head. “Is there anything you don’t know? I’d be quite at a loss how to care for Huan, or know what he needs.”

Sam ducked his head, embarrassed. “’Tis naught but common sense, Frodo. You’d do just fine on your own, without my help.”

Frodo took Sam’s hand and kissed it. “No, my dearest Sam, I wouldn’t. I learned that, if nothing else, on our Journey.”

***

Huan slept soundly, tired after his bath and meal. Sam went off to find the materials and tools to make the promised collar and when he returned, found Frodo standing over the dog’s bed, biting his lip and watching him with a worried expression.

“What’s wrong?” Sam asked in concern, going to Frodo’s side.

“Huan’s been whimpering in his sleep. Do you think he’s in pain?” Frodo gave him an anxious look.

Sam shook his head. “’Tis a bad dream, is all. Dogs have dreams, my dear, just like we do. I reckon Huan has more call than most to have bad ones.” 

“I didn’t know.” Frodo knelt by the basket and began to run a gentle hand down Huan’s side. “Hush, now,” he murmured, repeating the caress and the words, over and over. The dog gradually stilled and his whimpering ceased. He slept peacefully once more.

Frodo looked up at Sam; his eyes were luminous with unshed tears. “There is another thing I learned from you,” he said. He rose and went into Sam’s waiting arms. They closed tightly about him, and the two hobbits stood without speaking for a long time.

***

Seated at the kitchen table, Sam worked steadily at fashioning Huan’s new collar. He cut the well-oiled harness leather to the proper shape with a sharp knife then stitched the ends together with a heavy needle and thread. While he worked, Frodo prepared their supper, and soon the scents of roasting chicken and potatoes and gravy filled the air. It wasn’t long before Huan was roused from sleep by the enticing aromas and sat up, sniffing eagerly.

Sam laughed as he set aside the nearly finished collar. “Nothing wrong with his nose, seemingly.” 

Huan had now taken up a station beside the table, and watched with keen interest as Frodo set a platter piled high with food down on the table. 

“I made plenty of extra,” said Frodo, “Huan needs feeding up.” He began to divide up the food: two plates for him and Sam, and a bowl for the whippet.

“Well,” Sam cautioned, “you don’t want to feed him at the table, Frodo. He’ll become a nuisance, begging for food. It may seem hard but he’ll have to learn to wait until we’re done eating.”

Frodo looked from Huan’s dark eyes, fixed upon him with an expression that would melt stone, to Sam’s resolute countenance. He sighed. “I’m sorry, Huan, but Sam’s the expert here. You’ll simply have to be patient.”

Frodo sounded so apologetic that Sam had to hide a smile behind his napkin.

After all three had eaten- Huan once again devouring his meal with lightning speed- Sam finished the collar, punching holes and attaching the brass fittings for the buckle, while Frodo did the washing up. 

“There now,” Sam said with satisfaction when he was done, holding the collar up for Frodo’s inspection, “let’s see how that looks.” He placed the soft dark rolled leather about Huan’s neck and fastened the buckle.

“He looks very smart, Sam,” Frodo said, drying his hands on a towel while he admired Sam’s handiwork.

Huan, holding his head proudly high as if to show off the new collar, walked to the door and stopped. He looked back at Frodo and Sam and gave a short bark, clearly trying to tell them something.

“What does he want, Sam?” Frodo asked, puzzled.

Sam laughed; he understood the dog’s behaviour perfectly. “’Tis clear you’ve no experience of dogs, Frodo. He wants to go out.”

“Wants to go- oh!” Frodo laughed back at Sam, his eyes clear and bright and dancing with mirth, as if he was once again the young heir to Bag End with nary a care in the world. “What a polite way of putting it, Sam!” Huan barked again. Frodo cast a look of mock alarm at Sam and said, “Come on, let’s take Huan for a walk. He seems rather anxious.”

As one in a dream, still entranced by Frodo’s laughing, joyful expression, Sam followed.

***

It was a beautiful evening. The sun was low on the horizon, and all the land was bathed in a warm amber glow that was gradually turning to shades of lavender and rose. Sam closed the garden gate behind him and watched Frodo and Huan heading down the Hill Lane ahead of him. The little whippet, seeming energized by his nap and second meal, frisked around Frodo like a puppy, and even so far forgot himself as to run in circles and bark for the sheer joy of it. Frodo’s laughter as he watched Huan’s antics was a benediction and a delight beyond reckoning. As he ran to catch up, Sam felt as if he could have taken flight, so light was his spirit after so many weeks and months of sorrow and toil.

They stopped in the Party Field to admire the mallorn tree, unfurling its leaves of bright gold, and bowed their heads to say a private thank you to the Lady for her gift that was helping to heal the wounds of the land they loved so dearly. “We are blessed, Sam,” said Frodo softly and Sam, his heart full to bursting, could only nod in reply.

Dusk was falling as they walked back up the New Row to Bag End, Huan trotting quietly by Frodo’s side. A thrush could be heard singing sweetly in a thicket. Overhead a bat wheeled and dove in search of insects. Warm light shone from the windows of the comfortable new holes of the Gaffer and Daddy Twofoot, and scents of wood smoke and cooking were carried on the gentle breeze. Stars began to blossom in the midnight blue of the sky, bright pinpricks of burning white.

Without conscious thought, Frodo’s hand reached out for Sam’s. Their fingers met, brushed and laced together, as naturally as breathing, and so they remained as they climbed the Hill Lane. The lamp they had left burning in the window by the front door of Bag End was a beacon in the deepening darkness, shining like the Lady’s starglass and beckoning them home.

Sam closed the door behind them and turned to look at Frodo. He was watching Sam with such a softness in his eyes as made every feeling, longing and wish rush up and choke him, making it impossible to speak. But Frodo didn’t appear to need words; he only smiled and said, “Tea, I think,” and led the way to the kitchen.

They had their tea, and slices of the seed cake Sam had made that morning, by the fire in the study, with Huan curled up sleeping on the thick rug at Frodo’s feet. When they were finished, Frodo went to one of the bookcases and removed a thick leather-bound volume from the shelf. “If I remember rightly, Sam, the tale of Beren and Lúthien is included in this book.” He opened it and searched through the pages. “Ah, yes, here it is. Shall I read it to you and Huan?” he asked with a smile.

“I’d like that, my dear, very much indeed. ‘Tis too long since we’ve shared a tale by the fire.”

Frodo and Sam settled on the sofa, side by side. Huan looked up with bright enquiring eyes and Sam gave a little pat to the space beside him. The whippet rose and climbed up on the sofa, settling in close to Sam. The warm weight of the dog curled against his side was comforting, somehow, and Sam gently stroked Huan’s velvet-soft head as Frodo began to read from the tale of Beren and Lúthien.

“…But Huan the hound was true of heart, and the love of Lúthien had fallen upon him in the first hour of their meeting; and he grieved at her captivity. Therefore he came often to her chamber; and at night he lay before her door, for he felt that evil had come to Nargothrond. Lúthien spoke often to Huan in her loneliness, telling of Beren, who was the friend of all birds and beasts that did not serve Morgoth; and Huan understood all that was said.”*

Frodo stopped reading; he closed the book. “I think that is enough for tonight, Sam,” he said, and his voice sounded a little sad. 

Silence fell, broken only by the ticking of the clock on the mantel, and the crackle of the logs burning in the fireplace. Sam placed his hand over Frodo’s where it still rested atop the smooth leather binding of the book. Frodo turned his hand beneath Sam’s and clasped it. He leaned against Sam’s shoulder, and gave a small sigh.

“Are you all right, my dear?” Sam asked in concern.

“Yes, Sam.” Frodo smiled up at him, but it was a weary smile. “A little tired, perhaps,” he confessed.

Sam touched the dark shadow beneath Frodo’s eye with a gentle finger. “You should go to bed.” Unable to help himself, he trailed the finger down Frodo’s cheek, to the corner of his mouth.

Frodo turned his head and kissed Sam’s finger. “Will you stay tonight?” he asked, his eyes going dark.

Sam swallowed hard. “Aye, if you want me.” His heart was racing.

“Always,” Frodo whispered. “My Sam.”

“You go on ahead, then,” Sam said quietly, “I’ll just run down the Hill and let my Gaffer know I’ll be staying the night, so he don’t worry none.”

Frodo nodded. He set aside the book, and gave Sam a quick kiss. “Don’t be long,” he said, standing and moving to the door.

“I won’t,” Sam promised.

***

When he returned to Bag End, Sam went to check on Huan, whom he had settled in his bed by the kitchen hearth before he left. To his surprise, the whippet was not in his basket asleep, nor anywhere Sam looked. Then Sam realised where he must be, and shook his head at his own foolishness. He stepped down the hall to Frodo’s bedroom.

The bedroom door was slightly ajar; Sam pushed it open and stood for a moment in the doorway, a tender smile playing about his lips. A single candle was burning on the bedside table. By its light and that of the flickering fire, he could see Frodo in the large bed. He was fast asleep, his head pillowed on one arm, and his maimed hand holding the white gem at his breast. On top of the covers was Huan. He was curled up against Frodo’s back, his head tucked between his paws. Huan was watching Sam, the light from the fire reflecting in his dark eyes; the tip of his tail stirred, but he did not move.

Sam stole soft-footed away, and returned with Huan’s bed. He set it down by the hearth and then went to the bed and scooped the little dog up in his arms. Huan gave him a questioning look.

“Sorry, lad,” Sam whispered, “But he belongs to me tonight.” He deposited Huan gently in the basket, and covered him with one of the blankets. The whippet seemed resigned, burrowing into his warm nest without complaint.

Sam quickly undressed and blew out the candle. He lifted the covers and slid into the bed beside Frodo, placing a hand on his arm. At the familiar touch, Frodo turned instinctively in his sleep and sought the welcome warmth of Sam’s embrace, curling around him and tucking his head into the crook of Sam’s neck: that cherished spot where it had so often rested during their long Journey. Sam carefully removed Frodo’s fingers from the white gem and laced them with his own. He rested his cheek on Frodo’s sweet-scented curls and was soon fast asleep.

Neither Sam nor Frodo stirred when Huan rose and made his way to the bed, leaping lightly up onto the foot. The little dog circled once, twice, thrice, then flopped down, settling his chin across Frodo’s blanket-covered ankle with a contented sigh. Warm, loved and safe, Huan closed his eyes and slept.

~end~

_Dedicated to the memory of a beautiful and courageous blue Whippet named Niles_

*From _The Silmarillion_


End file.
